Stitched Dolls
by The Miffed Writer
Summary: In his existence, he's never seen a soul like this boy's. Macabre and violent and innocent as the driven snow. A Coraline AU.


**I don't own Hannibal.**

 **This was a prompt on dreamwidth that I've been meaning to get to.**

 **I admit that Hannibal's a little OOC, but I can't help it. If I had to pin it down, I would say that he's got a little bit of Jareth from Labyrinth in him, and obviously some of the Other Mother.**

X

The Pink Palace is a decidedly uncheerful building, Will decides, standing outside of the car. Winston sits at his feet and whines pathetically, nudging at his legs, trying to get him out of the shadow.

Bella Crawford had sedately walked up the path to their flat, intending (not that she said but Will knew) to take a nap after such a long car ride; she hated long drives before, but now the chemo was making her exhausted anyway (she didn't want it, hated it, but it was the one thing that Jack had asked of her, begged of her, and so she would suffer the indignity as best she could, hiding her limp, lost hair with a turbanlike scarf). It was just one more thing that Will knew without being told.

Jack was busy directing the movers about the rest of the flat- the master bedroom had been unpacked before they'd arrived for this very reason.

"Will," Jack said, when he'd approached, "why don't you go...meet the neighbors or something?" Stay out of the way, was what he meant.

Will appreciated that he said it nicely, at least.

His last foster parents hadn't minced words.

There are 4 flats in the Pink Palace. It used to be a large house belonging to one family; it still was, in a way- the Blooms still owned it, but they didn't live there anymore. They lived in town now. That's what Jack told Bella, anyway. The house was divided, bricked up in some places, and now there are only apartments. Counting the Crawford's and Will, there are 3 flats being lived in. The empty one is across the building, separated by a thick wall of crumbling brick.

Winston followed Will as he circled the building.

It would have been a pretty place, once upon a time. Now, its architecture was still to be admired, but even then it had a worn down, less than cared for sort of look. It bothered Will- this was a house built to be loved. Maybe it was, a long time ago, but not anymore.

"Good morning," Will jumped a bit, spinning on his heel. From out of the mist came a woman about Jack and Bella's age; ice blond and calm, Will knew that she was well educated, and capable of kindness, but she was hurt. She dressed well, expensive taste, but muted.

"Good morning, ma'am." She smiled a bit and Will found himself looking away.

"Are you moving in?"

"Yes. I'm Will Graham." He held out a hand to her, and she took it, smiling. He saw her eyes stray to Winston who yawned and licked his chops. "And this is Winston."

"Bedelia Du Maurier. I live in the basement flat." She looked him over again, and Will fidgeted, wishing that he'd dressed better than his dirty jeans and sweater- but they were comfortable, and safe, and warm. "I'm surprised the Blooms let you move in. They don't normally rent to people with children." Will wondered why that would be.

"I don't know." He looked down, and kicked softly at the dirt...well mud.

Bedelia nodded before looking out in the mist. Will knew that she was gathering her thoughts.

"Well, if you decide that you need company, you're welcome to visit. Do you drink tea?"

"I've never had any."

"We'll change that. If you go exploring, be careful- there are all sorts of places to get lost and twist your ankle out in the woods." She touched his shoulder softly, and Will smelled her perfume- something light and musky and mysterious. "Watch out for the well, by the way. It's long dried up, but it goes down deep."

Will watched her walk away; she was afraid, but at peace. He saw it in her eyes, but the way that she kept looking over his shoulder made him very nervous.

Behind him were trees, almost a forest. But in the mist, he couldn't see anything.

X

 _In his many years of existence, Hannibal had witnessed the souls of many mortals and devoured many more._

 _His home, the Other Realm, had many gateways into the Mortal World, but the most entertaining had always been in Baltimore- on a piece of property known as the Pink Palace._

 _In the darkness he licked his lips; such lovely souls were drawn there. Beautiful minds, all of them._

 _But none like this boy._

 _There were many names for Hannibal- monster, witch, wendigo. In the end it didn't matter, because he existed and continued to exist, even as those who gave him those names faded to dust beneath their Earth. He'd kept the name Hannibal though, if only because he liked it. It had been the name of a general some years ago for the mortals, but only a blink of an eye for him._

 _This soul was perfect- the perfect age, on the cusp of adulthood; a half a foot in the grave, so to speak. So ripe with imagination!_

 _When a child dreams, often their dreams are nonsensical and far reaching- touching the stars, worlds of color and are freeing. Hannibal can see them behind his eyes, taste them when he devours their souls- delicious things, dreams are._

 _But this boy…_

 _His dreams are different, blood stained and fire blackened, they tie him to the world when he just wants to let go. A soul dreaming of darkness and carnage, and yet innocent as the January snow._

 _"Oh, little Will," he whispers in the darkness. Around him, a construct is beginning to form, spun from tarnished silver threads. "How precious a thing you are."_

 _Monster._

 _Witch._

 _Wendigo._

 _Soul devourer._

 _World builder._


End file.
